For I know my transgressions,
and my sin is ever before me.
Two years ago, when I was in England, I went to a truly beautiful Ash Wednesday service in the chapel at Magdalen College. I'll confess that it was beautiful to the point of being distracting and disorienting, but the memory of that night serves me well. I must say that it was an achingly beautiful service. Candlelight, incense, a boys choir, stained glass and statues of saints, British people, liturgy, participation, religious vestments--all things I love. I heard sung for the first time the Allegri Miserere, which has become one of my favorite musical pieces. It's Psalm 51, sung in Latin, which is currently my favorite psalm for Lectio. I love this Psalm and the Miserere because they make me feel like it's OK to stop and simply recognize my sinfulness. I spend most days concealing sins or trying to immediately fix them. I love the darkness because my deeds are evil. These songs help me see the value of sitting with my transgressions in full awareness of my own wretchedness. It's freeing I think, and the first step to genuine repentance. I remember how later that night I returned to study at the Bodleian, the wispy grey cross on my studious brow as I researched rewarded virtue in the fairy tales of George MacDonald. What a beautiful life.
This Lent, I've decided to give up all food that I eat only for the sake of pleasure. So dessert, eating out, and sugar are off the list. Not just for the sake of foregoing pleasures, but for the pursuit of greater ones. Giving up "pleasure foods" for Lent mentally reinforces that Jesus is the source of happiness. It's an idea worth thinking about. If I reward myself in the midst of reading Hume or memorizing French vocabulary with a pan au chocolat, or grab Thai food with a roommate after church, I am easily satisfied. This isn't bad. But it's another matter after a long day of researching a paper on cross-cultural literacy development or preparing grad school applications to simply sit back and not attempt to satisfy my desire for reward. It's good sometimes to simply feel the lack of something.
Self-denial really is it's own pleasure. It slows one down and allows for the space to reflect. If, as Pascal says, all men are distracting themselves because what we most fear is being alone with ourselves in a quiet room, then it's good for me to brave the simplicity of emptiness. It's good to shake off the noisy demands of the body in order to hear the quiet, pensive pleas of the soul.
Generally, I love having the space and time to reflect. But it's easy to forget to do this in the midst of finishing up my last semester of college, straining with all my might to run with elegance the last leg of a difficult race.
I want Lent this year to be about feeling the lack. I think I've forgotten the good in feeling that I'm missing something. It's amazing how possible it is to live with unsatisfied desires. This has become especially important because my biggest fears right now are concerned with being able to make ends meet after college. I'm fearing only the things Jesus commands me not to fear. To feel, even in a small way, that I can be OK without is a great boon to my soul.
I'm also trying to be unselfish. I'm so morbidly selfish it's a wonder anyone wants to be friends with me. The practice of going without for Lent is meaningful then, because it reminds me that my primary goal shouldn't be my own comfort. I always provide rationale for self-centeredness, claiming that I must ensure my own needs are met because no one else will do so. But again, if God is our Father and if he bid even Jesus to wander in the desert with him for 40 days, then I can trust him to care for me while I seek to love others first.
All this because I'm not eating pancakes for breakfast? Yes. I think so.
I want truth for food.
